Let's See If We Can't Make You Scream
by water4willows
Summary: An unforeseen foe abducts Matt and it's up to Gabby and the members of the CPD Intelligence unit to find him before it's too late. Lots o' matt!whump. Written for the Winter Whumperland fic exchange over on Tumblr. Follow me there at the-wandering-whumper!
1. Chapter 1

a/n: Thanks to the amazing LadyReisling, LurkingWhump, and TelekeneticHedgehog for the beta and CutiesOnTheHorizon for the amazing support of this little fic. It was written for the Tumblr Whump Community's Winter Whumperland fic exchange run by the beautiful BemusedlyBespectacled. A gift for my dear friend Alicia (WhumpMyWorld), who I often get in fic exchanges because our tastes are so similar. Love you, chica!

* * *

 **Le** **t's See If We Can't Make You Scream**

A Chicago Fire By Water4Willows

 **Gabby**

Admit it, you've got this idea in your head of how you'll act in a crisis. I bet you're even pretty sure, when faced with the unthinkable, that you'll be able to don your cape and swoop in to save the day. Am I right? We all like to think we're heroes, and capable of extraordinary things. But the fact of the matter is, fear is an unpredictable bedfellow. It affects everyone differently, and not always in the way that you think.

Take me, for instance. I kind of have this 'shoot first , ask questions later' reputation around here. And when it comes to my friends, my family, my husband, there isn't much I wouldn't do for them. It's probably why I make such a good firefighter and now a paramedic. There's no burning building I won't run into, no situation I won't put myself in the middle of, to save the people I love. So when the detectives show up at my firehouse and tell me they found Matt's truck abandoned on the side of the road in a seedier part of town, with blood in the driver seat and the window smashed in, you'd think I would have formed a search party right there on the spot. Shamed the Chicago PD into putting every man they have on the case until Matt was found safe and sound, or something.

But it doesn't happen that way. Because as soon as I get the news, nothing seems to make sense anymore and I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself. I imagine that's because Matt has just been there for so long, I can't seem to comprehend the thought that maybe he's gone for good. And that thought freaks me out. And the freaking out fills me with fear. And the fear makes me stupid. Especially once the ransom call comes in.

Can we call it a ransom call? If the mouth breather on the other end of the line, cursing through a diatribe of all the ways my husband ruined his life and doesn't make any demands, just tells me Matt is going to pay for what he's done, can we call that a hostage situation?

PD has put Intelligence on my husband's case. No, scratch that. _Antonio_ has put Intelligence on my husband's case. They're all gathered in the kitchen, a makeshift headquarters set up amid the pots and pans that haven't been used properly since Peter left. Why they chose the firehouse to set up shop is beyond me, but they're trying to help so I'm not about to complain.

"Are you sure you don't recognize the voice?" Antonio asks me for the hundredth time as he finishes playing the tape and lays the recorder on the table between us. I shake my head just as Christopher Hermon plops down a Styrofoam cup full of steaming hot coffee near my elbow. Thin tendrils of steam curl up from the light brown liquid. He's made it just the way I like and I inhale the heady aroma with the cup clutched in my trembling hands before we share a look over the brim. He winks at me before disappearing again. I realize suddenly that I don't want him to go and almost call out to him. Antonio is my brother and he loves me and he really is doing everything he can to help, despite being a bit of a dick at the moment, but he's in Cop Mode. And I don't need someone in Cop Mode right now. I need someone in husband mode. I need someone in "get Gabby through this' mode. Someone to hold my hand and rub my back, and tell me that everything is going to be okay, even if they don't believe it.

God, I miss Shay.

"What did you guys talk about this morning? Did he mention anything suspicious going on?" Antonio is leaning over the table and encroaching on my personal space. It's like we're down at the precinct and I have to glance around the room for a second to remind myself that I am, in fact, in the firehouse and not some interrogation room down at the precinct.

"For the thousandth time, _Antonio_ ," I say, letting my accent thicken so that I sound just like our mother when I say his name. "Besides driving separately this morning so he could run an errand, nothing was out of the ordinary. It was like every other morning we've had for the past year."

"And he didn't tell you where he was going."

I massage my temples and close my eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Matt Casey and I do not tell each other everything." I have this sudden urge to hurl my fresh cup of coffee at the wall. Wouldn't help the situation, but it sure as hell would help with this building frustration.

Antonio thinks over the information for a moment. "Maybe if you listened to the call again?"

But I have listened to the call. I've listened to that damn thing so many times the words don't make sense anymore. He queues up the tape anyway and I glance out one of the big windows looking out on to the rest of the firehouse and spot Boden standing there in the 's talking adamantly with someone in uniform, but still locks eyes with me. His face is a mixed bag of the one hand there's pity there in his eyes, but something else, too. He's worried about me and wanting me to give him some indication that I'm ok. I want to give him what he's looking for, but I just can't do it. So I look away as the voice of my husband's kidnapper fills the conference room for what I'm sure will not be the last time.

"…you're never going to see him again. And he's going to suffer, Mrs. Casey, I promise you that. He's going to suffer like I suffered and not even your friends down in the ME's office are going to be able to identify the body."

"Anything?" Antonio asks hopefully.

I look up at my brother, the tears I've been trying to hold at bay ever since this nightmare began, threatening at the corners of my eyes. I've got nothing. The voice means nothing to me, nor does it spark any trace of recognition in my brain, which is infuriating because I'm usually very good with stuff like this.

"I don't know who that man is."

Antonio props his hip up on the table in front of me and looks me over with some unreadable expression on his face, like he doesn't quite know what to do with me at this point. I know I'm being entirely unhelpful, but the fact of the matter is, I don't know anything. I don't have that one smoking gun of a clue that's going to blow this case wide open and find Matt, and I know it. And actually, the realization of that fact is beginning to tear me apart from the inside.

We kind of just sit there in silence for a moment, neither knowing what to say to the other, until someone opens the door to the conference room where my brother and I have sequestered ourselves.

"Antonio, you got a minute?" Adam Ruzak asks, popping his head in. I heard someone talking about how he came in off an undercover job so he could help with the search. He looks like he hasn't slept in about four days, but he's helping so that makes me his number one fan at the moment. If I knew him better, I might have actually even told him that.

"Is it something about Matt?" I ask, spirits lifting for the first time in hours. But Ruzak is shaking his head.

"I just gotta run something by Antonio."

"Will you be alright in here on your own for a minute?" I nod, not entirely sure it's the truth but not about to hold my brother back from his job for the sake of my impending mental breakdown. Antonio looks at me like he's seeing right through the ruse, but leaves a moment later on a nod.

I know I asked for this, but doesn't this go against what they teach in kidnapping 101? Never leave the emotional family member alone in a room with their horrible thoughts for company? I mean, shouldn't someone care enough to make sure that I'm never by myself through all this? I know I act like a hard ass, but I'm no ice queen. I need someone here in my court right now. Hell, I don't care if it's just someone sitting here with me. They don't even have to talk, just be here, otherwise I just might go get that cape out of my locker and try to swoop in and save the day.

"Or fuck it up, more like it," I snort, as I voice the thought out loud. Smiling and then fighting back tears yet again a second later.

But what could _I_ possibly do? Matt is nowhere to be found. No one has any idea where he might be or where he was going this morning, and I've got some of the best people in the CPD looking for him. No, my best bet is to stay here and try and let my brother and Intelligence do their jobs.

Don't mind me. It's just that I'm not good at this, at being… ineffectual. In the quiet of the conference room, I let my head fall forward onto my arm and try to ignore the tickle of those frustrated tears as they finally let loose and track down my nose and splash against the linoleum tabletop. I find myself subconsciously trying to search out Matt's voice in the din outside the room. But it's not there, might never be there again, and that realization makes my shoulders shake harder as the emotions overwhelm me completely and I begin to sob.

Maybe it's a good thing that I'm alone, because I don't want anyone to see me like this. I clench my teeth, hope I don't make enough noise to draw attention to myself, because as much as I was bitching about being alone earlier, I'm thankful for it now. And yet, I'm not surprised, nor do I fight against it, when the door to the conference room opens with such force it rattles the windows a moment later and strong arms envelop me. I can tell they're not the arms I want, but they're arms that will do, at least for the time being.

Kelly Severide, smelling of wood fire and the inside of the squad, presses a kiss to the top of my head. "They're gonna find him. He's gonna be okay."

People have been telling me that an awful lot lately. I think it's because they don't know what to do, so they give me what they can: a little bit of hope. And in Kelly's case, I know things have been difficult between him and Matt these past few months. So I pick up what he puts down. Cling to it, really. So tightly that things begin to ache. Still, it's not enough.

"But what if they don't?" I wail into his shoulder where I've buried my face.

"They will," he vows, pulling me even closer. "They have to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Matt**

Why do people always assume a blow to the head is the way to go when you want to incapacitate someone? Is it too much bad TV, maybe? Because people in TV shows are always getting conked on the head and knocked out when the truth of it is, hitting someone over the head with, let's say a wooden bat stolen from the back of their truck, isn't going to knock them out. It will daze them for sure, but it's not going to completely incapacitate them, at least not for long. Unfortunately for me, the idiot who blew out _my_ window this morning and bashed me in the face with the business end of _my_ bat was also carrying some sort of sedative along with him. I can still feel the sting of the injection site as I slowly claw myself back into consciousness.

Somewhere above my head, Johnny Mathis serenades me, his rousing rendition of "We Need a Little Christmas" coaxing me out of my drug-induced slumber.

" _For we need a little Christmas, right this very minute."_

My head throbs along in time with the beat thanks to the drugs and the bat to the face, but when I lift my arms to cradle my head, nothing happens. This surprises me, but I'm still too dazed to really be able to figure out what's going on. So I do the only thing available to me. I blink stupidly down at my boots until it finally registers that they're bound together with what looks to be duct tape. (Probably my duct tape, considering how this day is going.) My hands are bound behind my back too, and with the same tape, if the stickiness surrounding my wrists is anything to go by.

" _Candles in the window, carols at the spinnet!"  
_  
Whether it's the result of the drugs or the panic attack brewing at the edge of my mind, I close my eyes against a wave of nausea so intense the pain in my brain ratchets up to an almost unbearable level and nausea claws up the back of my throat.

"You're okay. You're fine. Nothing you can't handle. Just breathe, Casey," I repeat the words out loud like a mantra, focusing in on my breathing, and the feeling mercifully subsides.

" _It hasn't snowed a single flurry, but Santa, dear, we're in a hurry."_

First thing I gotta do is get my hands free, so I squint out into the gloom to try and get a handle on where I am and what I've got to work with. The place I'm in seems to be some kind of forgotten backroom in a retail shop. Dust covers everything, and there are naked, faceless mannequins I almost mistake for people piled up along the walls and a broken clothes rack behind me. The world spins a bit when I shift onto my back, but I can make out one entire wall covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves holding bolt after bolt of molding, outdated cloth. It feels as forgotten and unused as a tomb.

"Is anyone there?" I try, kicking at a the broken pile of twisted metal that was once a clothing display off to my left and raising as big a ruckus as I can manage. "Can anyone hear me?" That Christmas music is coming from somewhere and where there's Christmas music there's usually people, so I figure making a ton of noise is at least worth a shot. I freeze, listening, but the only response I get for my efforts is more Johnny Mathis.

" _Need a little Chriiiiist-maaaaas noooooow!"  
_  
Something shifts off to my left as the song ends. I strain my hearing but all I can pick up on is the faint sound of distant rustling. Rats probably.

I shudder. Forgotten places like these always have rats. And rats nibble. And make nests in the things that stick around long enough, and there's no way in hell that's going to be me. I maneuver up off of the floor in a move that would have made my instructors at the fire academy proud, and congratulate myself a moment later for actually managing to sit up and stay up. Vertigo has a thing or two to say about the sudden shift in position, but I am able to keep down the Egg McMuffin I scarfed down before heading out to the jewelry store this morning. I count my blessings on that one. Because if there's anything in this world that's just about as bad coming back up as it is going down, it's a hastily inhaled McDonald's breakfast eaten on the go.

I'm in the middle of the room, but besides the clothes rack behind me, there isn't much around me to work with. Still, the broken arms of the rack look sharp enough, and I start scooting myself over so I can reach them with my hands. I have to stop a few times because the drugs are still in my system, and every so often the nausea washes back over me as the ground sways and I nearly topple over again. I can usually get it to stop with a few quick breaths in through the nose and out the mouth, but the sooner I'm out of here the better. I'm just about to reach the rack when a door opens and closes behind me.

"Hello?" I'm almost happy, giddy really. So much so, it never occurs to me that the man approaching could be anything but my savior. Even when he squats down beside me, winter hat sliding up his impeccably shaved head until it looks like it's about to pop off the top like a pimple, I'm expecting him to ask me if I'm okay and start sawing through the tape binding my ankles together. What I'm not expecting, however, is to get back handed across the face so ferociously, my head snaps back and collides painfully with the broken rack behind me.

"What the hell!" I taste blood. My would-be rescuer has busted open my lip.

"Say another word and I won't just hit you next time," my kidnapper says darkly. We'll call him Manny for now, considering he looks a lot like the mannequin he drapes his winter coat over when he rises. I flex my jaw and swipe my tongue across the cut. It's not too deep, but it still sends blood trickling down my chin. It's amazing how annoying things on your face can be when you don't have your hands free to wipe them away.

"Who in the hell are you supposed to be?" I know Manny said not to talk again, but I'm pretty sure he was just bluffing. He proves my point a moment later when he takes off his hat and answers my question.

"The guy who's gonna kill you, Mr. Casey." I don't know quite what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. Manny walks back over and stares down at me, his nearly-black, beady little eyes glinting even in the low light. He reminds me of one of those bald bouncers outside of a club.

"My name is Kurt Dace and three months ago, you and your little smoke eater pals got my buddy Eddie thrown in jail. I'm here to collect on a debt."

I think long and hard about what he's just told me, but nothing clicks. Maybe it's the drugs, but absolutely nothing about the name Kurt Dace rings a bell. And if I knew him, I'd remember it. The list of people who have a grudge against me is not a long one, per se, but I never forget the ones who want to kill me.

"Look, how about this Ma… Kurt. Why don't you untie me and we can go talk about this over a beer. Discuss it like gentlemen." It's a long shot and Not Manny… _Kurt_ \- damn it, Matt - laughs at it. I guess it was worth a try.

"You know, my partner made that mistake," He chuckles, dragging a dusty old chair over from one side of the room and pulling me up off the floor and into it with ease. I'm not a small man, so the fact that he's able to do this without much strain does not bode well for me physically if things start going downhill again. "Played with ya when he should have just killed ya outright. Well, I won't make that same mistake, Captain." So he knows enough about me to know my rank. I can't help but feel like I'm missing something here.

"Look, I don't know who you are, and I sure as hell don't remember throwing your partner in jail."

Dace moves behind me, securing my already bound wrists to the chair with what feels like rope. I crane my neck to try and see what he's doing, but it's no use. I can't see. "You sure you've even got the right guy?"

"Oh, I got the right guy, alright," Dace replies, popping his head up over my shoulder as he finishes tying the rope with a painful pull. I try not to wince. "Does the name Eddie Holmes jog your memory?"

All the color drains from my face. Of course I remember the name. That was the gun wielding psychopath who tried to kill me a few months back. As far as I knew, he was locked up at County. No one bothered to mention to me that the guy might have an accomplice.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

"Your silence tells me it might." Dace rounds on me, big beefy biceps visible under the shirt sleeves he's in the process of rolling up. There's only one reason you roll up your shirtsleeves like that, and my eyes go wide with the panic I can no longer keep hidden. This is _not_ going to be pretty.

"Wait a second! Why don't we just…"

His closed fist connects with my face as his knuckles crack mercilessly across my cheekbone. I'm pretty sure something breaks as the force of his blow snaps my head to the side and actually tips the chair over ever so slightly. I'm anticipating this to be just like the first time he hit me, only it's not. This is worse. There's no break, no pause, just a flurry of curses and fists. I feel a bit like a punching bag suspended from the ceiling, my sole purpose in life now to just hang there and take it. And I do, because there's literally nowhere else for me to go. The ropes and the tape hold fast, my skin chafing and bleeding as I pull against them.

"Me and Eddie, we had plans," Dace says, when he finally pauses. I try to steady my breathing as sweat (or blood, for all I know) runs down my neck and soaks my shirt collar as I fight to stay conscious. "You and your little pals over at 51 lost me a lot of money. I can't ever get that back, but at least I can take a little bit of it out of your hide."

My eyes might be well on their way to swelling shut, but my hearing is still intact. There's a click near my ear and then a moment later something electronic whirls to life.

"Now, Captain Casey," Dace continues on, waiving what looks to be a recording device in front of my face, and sounding extremely pleased with himself. "Let's see if we can't make you scream for your wife."


	3. Chapter 3

**Gabby**

I'm not sure if it's planned or rather just some unspoken decision the firehouse comes to, but I'm never left alone after I broke down in Severide's arms. Even as Antonio pores over traffic cam footage and listens to the recording of my husband's kidnapper's voice over and over again, someone is always with me. Kelly takes first shift and then when squad is called out, Herman takes his place. Even Boden takes a few minutes out of his day to sit with me. And I know he's busy. He's down a Captain. His firehouse has been taken over by overzealous police detectives (but believe you me, that is not a criticism. I'd rather them be ruthless than civil at this point) and the place is in utter disarray.

It's been exactly… six hours, thirty-two minutes and seven seconds since Matt was taken. I know this because I've watched just about every single one of those seconds tick by on the clock bolted to the wall above the conference room whiteboard. It's one of those industrial strength ones that looks like it was forged in the fires of Mount Doom before being sealed in a steel cage. I wonder idly who put it there. Was the clock stolen at some point? What's with the cage? I've been at 51 for a while and I don't remember any shenanigans involving that clock. Yet there it sits, bolted to the wall and protected by bars, and standing watch over the ticking minutes like some forgotten cold war era soldier. It's funny the things your brain fixates on a crisis.

"I can't do this anymore," I say, rising from my seat and wringing my hands.

"What?" Otis asks. He's been sitting with me for the last half hour or so. Herman had to go pick one of his kids up from school.

"Sit around here and wait for something to happen. This is stupid. I'm going out to look for him."

"Where, Gabby? No one has any idea where he is," Otis tries to reason with me, also getting up from his seat to block my way when I start heading for the door.

"They found his truck over on the south side, didn't they?" I counter. "I can start there."

"Can you even hear yourself right now?" Otis says incredulously, eyebrows chasing up after his hairline. "I've got at least two good reasons for why that will never work." I scowl at him. "One," he says, ignoring me and holding up a finger, " _south side_. And two: don't you think that's the first place the cops thought to look?"

He's right. I know he's right and, judging by the smug look he's trying not to show, he knows I know he's right. It makes me want to smack the mustache right off his face.

"But what if they missed something?"

"I highly doubt that."

"But you said it yourself," I say, raising my own finger. "'It's the south side'. No one over there is going to talk to the cops. Maybe if I," but I don't get to finish my sentence. My brother crashes back into the room and if he wonders why I'm up and out of my seat with Otis barring my way to the door, he doesn't mention it.

"What is it?" I ask immediately, noting the look on his face. Whatever it is, it doesn't look good, and my heart jumps up into my throat.

"Some kid just dropped something off for you."

"And?" This is a firehouse, people are always dropping shit off

"And we're pretty sure it's from whoever took Matt."

Antonio holds the door open for me as I barrel through, hot on my tail as I practically sprint towards the kitchen.

"It was a flash drive with an audio file on it," Antonio explains, trying to keep up with me. "Some guy paid a kid a hundred bucks to bring it by the firehouse." As we near the swinging doors of the apparatus bay, I notice Ruzak talking to a terrified-looking teenage boy just outside. I wonder if this is the kid who brought the drive, but don't get the chance to ask, because I forget all about him a moment later when I reach the kitchen.

The place is unrecognizable. All the familiar furniture that makes this place home has been pushed up against one far wall and the CPD has set up tables of their own. Plain clothes police detectives and computer techs mull around with cups of coffee in their hands, talking quietly, but my main focus is the familiar group of people clustered around one laptop at the head table. Jay Halstead, Kevin Atwater, Hank Voight. They all look up and stop talking the moment I enter the room. Everyone stops talking, actually, and my stomach bottoms out. Oh god, this can't be good.

"What's going on?" Antonio asks, as surprised as I am by the silence. Jay Halstead jogs around the corner of the table and stops us from going any further.

"This might not be such a great idea," the detective says cryptically.

"You listen to it?" Antonio asks. I inch forward, trying (and failing miserably) to look like I'm not hanging on their every word.

"Yeah," Jay admits, glancing at me.

Antonio breathes out through his nose. "Bad?"

The detective doesn't say anything, but his silence speaks volumes. Antonio bites his lip and turns towards me.

"No." I tell him flatly.

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Yes, I do, and the answer is still no. I'm not going anywhere. Whatever is on that drive, I can handle it."

"Not this, Gabby. It's…" Jay begins, but the look i shoot him stops him mid-sentence.

"Don't you even start with me, Halstead."

 _Who in the hell do you think you are, anyway?_ I want to say, but don't. I can practically smell the misogynistic tendencies raring up in the room; all of the men here thinking they know what's best for me just because they're related to me, or a I dated them a million and a half years ago. It's bullshit. Maybe it's just the stress of the situation talking, but only I know what I can and cannot handle and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some overprotective ex or my asshole of an older brother make that decision for me.

"I don't give a rat's ass what's on that drive," I continue, ready for a fight – if it comes to that. "If it's about Matt, I want to hear it."

Antonio shares a look with Hank Voight who seems to not have an opinion on the matter one way or the other, judging by his silence and the one shoulder shrug he gives. This is obviously Antonio's rodeo. Everyone else is just along for the ride.

"Alright, then. Play the damn thing," he orders and the newest member of intelligence (I can't ever seem to be able to remember her name) hits a button on the laptop. I hold my breath as the sounds of a man clearly being tortured fill the room. It takes everything in me not to faint right then and there as his screams tear apart every hope I had of this turning out any other way than how I imagined.

It occurs to me then that maybe Jay Halstead was right. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Matt**

There's this tree I used to climb when I was a kid. It was one of those real skinny pines that had low hanging branches, perfect for climbing. I spent a lot of time up in that tree. The only thing was, there was so much sap in it, I would often come home covered in it. Drove my mother nuts. Dad used to joke that if he could throw me against the wall and I didn't stick, then it wasn't time for me to come in for dinner yet. The worst days were when he tried.

I frickin' loved that tree. It was an escape, and I used to sit in it for hours, either spying on my sister and her friends or hiding from my father. I did all my best thinking at the top of that thing, and as far as I know, it's still there. Not that I'm brave enough to go and find out for sure. That tree is right next to my childhood home. The same childhood home where my mother murdered my father. So yeah, no going back.

I haven't thought about that tree in ages, so it's funny that that is the place I retreat to as Kurt Dace pounds his fists into my face relentlessly. I don't even think he has a plan at this point. There's no method to his madness, nor any pattern to the blows that snap my head back and empty my lungs. His sole objective seems to be to to inflict as much pain as possible. An objective, I might add, that he's achieving quite well.

I think of Gabby a lot. About the life I had planned for us and the things we were going to do. No one knows this, but a relative of mine left me some lakefront property up in Michigan. It's secluded and just basically untamed forest at this point, but its mine and I have plans for it. I'm going to build her a house. A place where we can take all those wayward kids she's inevitably going to want to save in our lifetime. It's a good house, too - a strong house, and she loves it like she loves me and calls it Our Shack, even though it's got more space than we'll ever need, even with our 130 adopted children. Or at least the version I imagine of her in my head does as a yet another well-aimed blow to the face explodes stars in front of my eyes and sends more blood pouring down my chin as the bones in my nose break. I guess they were right, all those writers and scientists. I guess your life really does flash before your eyes right before you die.

"It's not even about the money, really," Dace is saying at me once my ears finally stop ringing and I can actually hear again. He pulls back his arm and pile drives his knuckles into my midsection. All the air rushes out of my lungs and I cough and sputter, trying to pull it back in again. The pain is indescribable as the serrated edges of my broken ribs grate against one another in my desperate attempt to start breathing again.

"Me and Eddie, we had something special. He was like a brother to me." He backhands me across the cheek and my teeth cut into the side of my mouth.

I've managed to bring some air back in, but it's not enough, and dark, black spots move in to take the place of the fading white stars. Gabby is the paramedic, but I've had enough field training to know that I'm not going to be able to take much more of this. If Dace doesn't let up soon, I'm not going to make it.

"You smoke eaters are a tight knit bunch," he continues on, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back so I'm forced to look at him. The world spins as I try to stay conscious, but I do somehow manage to find him with my one good eye, the other having long ago swollen shut. "Surely you know what I'm talking about?"

I don't know what words try to form on my lips, defiant snark or pathetic begging, but all I manage to do is choke on blood. Dace pulls his hand back in disgust and I can't keep my head up when his hand is suddenly gone from my hair. It falls forward and I don't have enough energy to lift it back up again.

I'm fading. I can literally feel my body beginning to shut down, and I'm kind of glad for it. It means the end. It means no more pain. I can rest now.

Colors dim and my wheezing breaths begin to slow. Is this how they're going to find me, the guys at the firehouse? My friends? Is this going to be someone's last vision of me: tied to a chair and dead of oxygen deprivation, internal organ failure, and blood loss? Not exactly the way I pictured going out. It was always a blaze of glory in my mind, or the exact opposite and expiring in my bed, an old man having led a good life. Not like this. ...Or is Dace going to do something to my body that's going to land me in the Chicago PD record books forever?

"You think they're gonna miss you when you're gone?" Dace asks me out of the blue. I'd almost forgotten he was still here. He sidles up beside me, something metallic held in his hand. It's shiny and glints in the weak light. I don't need both my eyes to know that it's a gun. "How about that wife of yours?"

If I weren't half dead already and tied to a chair, I'd murder him for bringing up Gabby.

"Let's find out, shall we?" He levels the gun at me, and pulls the trigger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Gabby**

"Gabriella…"

"Screw you, Antonio, I'm going in there with you." Someone, Ruzak maybe, grabs me by my arm and tries to hold me back.

"You can't!" My brother replies, posturing like crazy because his sister is currently screaming at him in front of his entire unit. He deserves it. I'm belligerent right now, and he knows the consequences of trying to stand up to me when I'm like this.

"This is police business. You've gotta let me do my job!"

"I've been letting you do your job!" I yell back. "All goddamn day! And I really don't care what you have to say about it. I'm going with you."

"No, you're not!"

We've been screaming at each other about this for the past five minutes, the argument about so much more than just my asinine (at least according to Antonio) demand that I be allowed to go on the mission to infiltrate the building where they think my husband is being held. You wouldn't think it, but ten minutes ago I was actually celebrating with Antonio over a breakthrough in the case. A partial fingerprint had been lifted from the thumb drive that the kid had dropped off. That lead us to a man named Kurt Dace, a known associate of Eddie Holmes, the last person to try and kill Matt. Turned out the two were old friends and had worked a job together a time or two. Now everyone was gearing up pay a visit to a nearby property held in one of Dace's relative's name. It was a long shot, but it's our only lead.

"I have no idea what we're walking into over there," Antonio continues. "I don't want you anywhere near this."

"But I'm a paramedic, you egghead! I can help! What are you going to do if he's hurt?"

"Have an ambulance on standby, just like we always do!"

"This is so stupid, _Antonio_." I throw the full weight of my accent behind his name again and he glares at me. "I'll stay back. I'll wait for your signal. I'll do whatever you want, but I am going with you to that place."

Antonio's face has gone red with rage, but he doesn't continue the argument. He just folds his arms across his chest like he used to do when we were kids and levels me with a dark look, like I better not dare take this any further. The matter is closed for discussion, as far as he's concerned, but I still have one last trick up my sleeve.

"If you don't let me go and he dies because of it, I will never forgive you, _hermano_." It's a low blow, way below the belt actually, but I really don't give a shit. It's time for the gloves to come off. Now that I've been forced into a corner he's just going to have to deal with what I have to become in order to get myself out again. It's unfair of me, I get that, but I seriously couldn't care less at the moment. Everyone heard the recording. They all know what's at stake here. There's no denying now how this might end.

"Alright fine, Gabby. You win," Antonio gives up unexpectedly, surprising the hell out of me.

I narrow my eyes at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Antonio sneers. Oh here we go.

"You can come with us, Sis, but as far as I or the CFD are concerned, you're off duty. That means you hang back in a car a few blocks away, you wait for my signal, and you stay the hell out of my way." This is okay. This is actually a compromise I can live with.

"Fine." I say.

"Fine." He parrots back.

"So when do we leave?"

I end up sitting in a car with Jay on an empty city street littered with garbage and dead leaves - the street sweepers don't visit this part of town voluntarily. I wonder if Antonio put him on Sister Protection Detail because of our history, or if he was chosen because he's the only one Antonio trusts to keep me safe. Or maybe I'm just reading too much into it and he's really pissed off and would rather be anywhere else in the world right now than suck in a car and protecting his ex-girlfriend.

It's wintertime in Chicago, but it's been unseasonably warm the past few days. Jay has his window rolled down. Whether it's to let the fresh air in, or to listen for sounds of gunfire, I can't really be sure. He's got his radio in one hand propped up in the window frame and the other resting on his thigh and they're both are tapping away nervously. I want to smack him in the side of the arm and tell him to knock it off, but that would be too hypocritical of me. I'm doing the exact same thing over on my side of the car.

"I'm sorry to hear about Erin," I say after a few minutes of awkward silence where the only sounds to fill the vehicle are the occasional chirps from his radio and the creaks of the engine cooling. He doesn't look at me but offers a quiet "thanks" as he tosses the radio up onto the dash.

"You still talk to her?"

He shrugs and scans the area outside his window. "Not much since she moved. She's been pretty busy with the new job."

"Oh." I don't know where to take the conversation from there. I haven't thought about Jay Halstead in a good long while. He pops back into my life every once in a while, but the experience is usually like revisiting a pleasant memory: always nice to pull out and look at, but still insignificant enough to be put away again. Still, there was a reason we dated. I think we could still be friends if the situation presented itself. So why is it so hard to talk to him?

"How's your brother?"

"Will's ok."

"Do you get to see him much."

Jay shrugs. "He's pretty busy, too."

I think that's going to be it, but he surprises me a moment later by going on.

"Remember that ER doc he had a crush on?"

"Natalie?" I love her. She's no nonsense, like me.

"They're dating now."

"No way!"

Jay actually cracks a smile.

"Yeah, they…" but the sound of distant gunfire cuts him off as the radio on the dash crackles to life. Both he and I stare at it as Antonio's voice calls out over the airwaves.

"We need that ambulance in here now!"

It's not the signal we're supposed to wait for, but Halstead and I still lock eyes from across the car as he throws it into gear and pulls away from the curb on screeching tires. I'm not what anyone would call a cautious driver, but I'm pretty sure Jay breaks at least a few land speed records as he tears down the drive and toward the building where Matt is. I grab for the safety bar above my head, and hold on for dear life until we screech to a halt in front of an old strip mall that looks like it might fall over on itself if a strong enough breeze hit the side of it. The parking lot is filled with cop cars, a few customers sprinkled about, trying to find out what's going on.

"They're in back," Ruzak yells as I extricate myself and the med kit I managed to smuggle out of the firehouse from the passenger seat. I can already hear 61s sirens wailing off in the distance. Antonio was true to his word and had them on standby.

Jay follows me around to the back of the building with his gun drawn, despite the presence of a SWAT team. I study them for a moment as I pass, trying to decide what the somber looks on their faces might mean. I convince myself that they're just focused on their jobs as I barge on through into the building. The light in here is dim, and I have to stop a few feet inside the door to allow my eyes time to adjust.

"Gabby, you can't be in here!" Antonio yells, sounding panicked as he runs up to me and blocks my way. I crane my neck, trying to see around him and into the dusty old back room I now find myself in.

"Let me through. I want to see him," I say as I try to push past him, but he isn't having it.

"We gotta wait for the paramedics."

"But I _am_ a paramedic!" The stupidity of people today is astounding.

"Not today, you aren't," he counters back. Antonio is trying like hell to block my view, but I can still see a figure tied to a chair near the center of the room. Someone, Atwater maybe, is kneeling beside them, checking for a pulse.

"Is he alive?" Before Antonio can answer the question, the third shift paramedics arrive and I try to sneak past my brother when he lets them through, but he catches me before I can.

"Let them do their jobs. You're too close to this."

I'm just about to start physically clawing my way through to Matt when a cry of anguish pierces the musty quiet of the store room. Antonio turns to see what's happening and it's then that I get my first real, unimpeded look at it all.

Matt's hands and feet are bound to a chair, and Chout has just cut through the ropes. His partner has secured Matt's neck with a cervical collar, and the lip of it is already covered in blood. They're maneuvering him down to the ground, assessing his injuries, calling out his vitals, but I don't register any of it. I'm too busy staring at his face, and the damage that has been wrought there.

Matt is barely recognizable, every inch of his handsome face swollen and puffy. Livid bruises cover every square inch of him and his eyes have swollen shut. I can't even tell if he's conscious. His lips, the lips I had planned to kiss as soon as he was back in my presence, are cracked and bloody. I can barely make out his true form under all those lacerations and bruises.

My hand comes up to my mouth as I try to stifle the hysterical shrieks that are trying to rip free from my throat.

"Jesus," Jay says from behind me, voicing what I cannot. Part of me wants to run to Matt's side and start treating him. But there's also this little part of my brain that is still capable of rational thought. And it reminds me that maybe that's not such a great idea. I won't be of any help. I'll just get in the way. Matt needs people that can think clearly and make the hard calls right now. And that's not me. So I do the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life. I stand down. I hang back. I let other people do the job I've always been the best at, because that's what Matt needs right now, and I am woman enough to admit that. At least for now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Matt**

The gun goes off, and a bullet whizzes past my head. Even as consciousness flees from me and the world darkens, I can feel the breeze of it's passing against my face. I'm expecting an impact, to be thrown back and for my world to descend back down into that realm of never-ending pain, only that's not what happens. There's a soft, surprised exhalation of breath off to my right, then the sound of a body hitting the floor, and then everything jumps into overdrive.

"He's down! Move in!" There are people. Actual living people. I never expected to see people again. I was pretty content to die with just the faces in my mind for company, and now here we are.

"Oh my god. Casey…" I try to lift my head to see who it is that's saying my name, but I just can't do it. Everything I've got left in me is busy trying to keep my lungs from crapping out, and even that is starting to go. Still, I must make some kind of move, because a moment later someone is kneeling in front of me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, hey, don't move, Matt. You gotta stay still, buddy." I want to tell whoever it is that I'm pretty sure I'm having no trouble at all following that particular order, but it's no use. I'm slipping. The pain and the damage are just all too much and I'm falling.

"Alright, he's not moving any air…"

" _Gabby."  
_  
I have no handle on time any more. It jumps forward or stands still all together. I'm on my back now. Something is being shoved down my throat and I just can't hold on any longer.

"…you hear me, you bastard? You don't get to die on me." Fingers are laced through mine. Or, no, wait, I'm back at the top of my tree, the wind in my hair and the cold biting at my skin. I'm free. I let go.

Those fingers are now in my hair, brushing it away from my face, massaging my scalp in that comforting way only one person has ever been able to master. "You keep breathing. You keep fighting, and we'll all be right here waiting for you when you get out of surgery."

I'm sitting at a table with my father, a plate of cold vegetables on the table top before me.

"Eat," he says

"No." I jut out my chin.

"Eat your damn vegetables, kid, or I'm going to make you eat them."

"…s normal, Gabby and you know it," voices in the blackness. Always with the voices. Don't they realize I just need to sleep? Don't they see it's so much easier here, lost in my memories then out there with the pain? "He's been through so much. We've gotta give him time to recover. He'll wake up soon. His EEG readings are all normal."

I'm sitting at the table again, but this time it's my mother. Her orange prison scrubs are wet with blood. "You were supposed to get me out."

I stare at her.

"You told me I would get out, Matty. But I'm not."

I fall.

"Come on Matt, baby. You gotta wake up. It's been nearly a week. Open your goddamn eyes!"

But it's so much better here in the dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Gabby**

You wouldn't think it, but I really hate hospitals. I'm in them all the time, but it's different when you're just in the ER, dropping off a patient. You don't have to stick around if you don't want to, to see the aftermath of what you've done. But mostly I relate my distaste of this place to all the times I've been forced to come here because of people I love. Antonio, Herman, Severide, Shay… And now Matt. Again.

He spends four days in a coma in the ICU. Four days because the damage done to his internal organs is so severe he needs constant, around the clock care. There's even a moment in there when I half expect his doctors to come in and tell me there's no point in hoping any more as they urge me to pull the plug. But my stubborn, pig-headed butthead of a husband holds on, and on day three, he finally turns a corner.

Matt's ICU room is a constant revolving door of people. If there was ever any question as to my husband's popularity, it's long gone now as an outpouring of flowers and well-wishers takes over one small corner of Chicago Med. The flowers are donated, because that's what Matt would want and they don't let you have that stuff in the ICU anyway. The cards, though… those I plaster up over every inch of bare wall I can find, and even then I still have extras. Hell, the _mayor_ even shows up at one point, taking a moment to walk up to Matt's beside and put a hand on his arm. It's both the most poignant and most surreal thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. I almost wouldn't have believed it happened, had I not physical bumped into one of the Mayor's big beefy bodyguards standing watch at the door. I couldn't have imagined up the look he gave me.

But for all the people who stream through, the only permanent fixture in the room is me. I'm friends with or have met just about everyone who works in this ward, so no one tries to kick me out. I think they actually like having me around because I know what it's like to be a nurse. I get what they have to go through day in and day out, and I make it a point to make their lives as easy as possible. I help where I can, stay out of the way when I should, and in exchange they all leave me the hell alone. The only time I do leave is to run home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. And that's usually only when someone practically drags me out of the room kicking and screaming. There are a few people who visit a lot more than others. All the guys from truck, and Severide. I think Kelly's taking this the hardest of all, especially as the days while away and Matt doesn't wake up. It's bothering me, too, and Kelly just so happens to be there on the day I've finally had enough.

We're sitting in our respective chairs, mine beside Matt's bed where I can maintain constant contact with his hand, and Kelly's along the wall beneath the TV that has been on this whole time but which I haven't even watched once. The sun has long since disappeared behind the skyscrapers, but the pink light of dusk still manages to fill the room. I've been staring at Matt's face for the last half hour, willing him to open his eyes when suddenly it's just all too much.

"Come on, Matt, baby," I hear myself saying as I get up from my chair and put my face close to his. His lips are slightly parted as he steadily breathes in and out. It wasn't always that easy for him and I shudder against the memory of endotracheal tubes and oxygen masks. Endless hours not knowing if he was going to make it from one minute to the next. "You gotta wake up. It's been nearly a week." Okay, a slight exaggeration, but that's what it's felt like. And enough time has passed that the swelling has gone down on his face and the bruising has morphed from livid purple to sickly greenish yellow. Matt looks like Matt again, and it's high time he woke up. "Open your goddamn eyes!"

Like the last few times I've tried something like this, I'm not expecting a response so I almost miss it when Matt's eyelids flutter and he actually opens his eyes. They're black and blue and bloodshot as hell, but they're open.

"Matt?" I bring his hand up to my lips and press a kiss to it. When I squeeze them shut to relish his warmth and the smell of his skin, tears cascade down my cheeks and dampen our connection.

I know enough about head trauma not to expect him to be all there the first time he wakes up, so I try not to be disappointed when all he can do is glance around the room for a second before falling back to sleep. It's something, at least, and at this point, I'll take what I can get. I press my lips to his forehead, over the least damaged part of his face, and silently shake with my tears. Matt's alive. Matt's alive and he's going to be okay. My heart is near to bursting when I turn to Kelly and he sweeps me up into a bone crushing hug that leaves us both laughing and breathless.


	8. Chapter 8

**Matt**

I don't remember much about what happened. There's a period of time right after I wake up when Gabby and the doctors try to get me to remember and talk about what went on in that room. But the fact of the matter is, I just don't remember any of it. I have pieces, but they're all so scattered and disjointed, it makes my head hurt to even try and put them back together. If I'm meant to remember, I imagine my brain will get there in its own sweet time. Besides, if ever need a reminder, all I have to do is look in the mirror. The bruises and the stitches and the splint around my nose are all I need.

Gabby clues me in on how I was kidnapped, but it's Antonio who lets me in on just how close I came to actually buying the farm. He tells me all about it after convincing my wife to go on a coffee run with a manipulative little song and dance number that would have made any conman proud - I'm really going to have to find out how he does that. While she's gone, he asks me a few questions, then I get him to open up about how my kidnapper was shot and how they found me tied to a chair and bleeding out internally. I hear it all second hand, and that's okay by me. I've got a firehouse to run, and I can't do that stuck in the grip of terrible memories.

Reading makes my head ache, so I spend a lot of time looking out my window. It's no childhood thinking tree, but it will do, and that's how Gabby finds me on day five of my confinement in my room at Chicago Med.

"Hey babe," she says as she walks through the door and deposits her messenger bag at the foot of my bed. I pull my eyes away from the window to look at her and try to ignore the vertigo and the nausea that reach up to grip me. I'll be glad when that little part of my traumatic brain injury recovery is over with. Gabby smells of the outdoors and peppermint. It occurs to me how close to Christmas it is. This is my favorite time of year, and I'm stuck here, recuperating.

"Hey, why the long face?" She leans over and kisses me and her skin is still chilled from the cold. It's been so warm lately, but the temperature dropped recently - at least according to my sources - and snow is on the way, and I can practically smell it on her. Gabby's hair is damp as well, as it falls against my neck when she holds on to our kiss for a fraction of a second longer than I expect. I can't believe I almost lost this.

"I'm ok." The look she gives me when she pulls away broadcasts nothing but disbelief so I try again. "I'm fine, Gabby. I promise. I'm just ready to get out of here."

"I have some good news on that front," she announces happily, pulling her laptop from out of her bag and setting it up on the rollaway table beside my bed. She's taken to filling out her shift reports in my room. "I just got finished talking to your doctor, and he says I can take you home tomorrow."

She looks so proud with herself, I can't help but grin. "Yeah?" She nods emphatically. I may feel like shit, but Gabby is still my ray of sunshine. I'm on a lot of pain meds, so maybe it's just them making me all emotional, but I feel the urge to remind her just how much I love her.

"I couldn't have gotten through all this without you," I say, getting a little choked up as the heaviness of all that has transpired over these last few days hits me hard. "You know that, right?"

She closes the laptop with a snap and takes a seat on the side of my bed, resting her hip against mine as she carefully settles in beside me. There are IVs to contend with, and broken ribs that still rob me of my vision and pull moans from my throat when I move the wrong way. She watches my face for signs of discomfort. Then, seeing none, she grabs for one of the hands I have resting on my midsection and holds it close to her heart.

"Never again, okay?" Like either one of us can promise something like that in our line of work, but I find myself nodding anyways. "I love you. So damn much." She caresses the side of my face with her free hand and I close my eyes and lean into the touch. Nothing feels right anymore, except her. She kisses my temple and we just sit there, her lips pressed against the side of my face and me rocking back and forth ever so slightly as I try not to let my emotions get the better of me.

For someone who can't remember much of what was done to him, it sure as hell is still managing to affect me. But even so, my bruises will fade. I have the love of an amazing woman and the support of an entire firehouse. I can get through anything with people like that at my side. So while I know this is quite possibly not the last time Gabby and I find ourselves in a situation like this, at least I know now I'll never go through it alone again. And that realization fills me with pride.

Fin.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please take a moment to leave a review. They really do keep our muses happy. Merry Christmas!


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